


Liminal

by AllegoriesInMediasRes



Series: Mary I of England: AU stories [5]
Category: 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Coming back from the dead, Complicated Relationships, F/M, Fix-It, Found Family, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, Stepfather - Stepdaughter Relationships, Uncle-Niece Relationship, WIP, faking your death, updates once a week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-13 16:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16021418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllegoriesInMediasRes/pseuds/AllegoriesInMediasRes
Summary: 1529.  At the Blackfriars Trial, a man shows up claiming to be the long-dead Prince Arthur and Katherine’s real husband. Apparently Arthur Tudor never died of the Sweat and faked his own death. Now as if having Anne Boleyn as her new stepmother wasn’t enough, Mary Tudor has to deal with a new stepfather as well: her uncle Arthur, come back from the dead. AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first longfic! 
> 
> This story is inspired by Velocity Girl1980’s story “Till Death Do Us Part”, and will relate the events of that story from Mary’s perspective. The basic premise of that story: At the Blackfriars Trial, a man shows up claiming to be the long-dead Prince Arthur and Katherine of Aragon’s real husband. Apparently Arthur Tudor never died of the Sweat, but instead faked his own death. His reappearance undoubtedly throws a few wrenches in the Great Matter… 
> 
> No need to have read that fic to understand this one, as this will be a complete retelling from Mary Tudor’s POV, but if you want to check the original out, I definitely recommend it! If you have read “Till Death Do Us Part”, please refrain from posting spoilers in the reviews.
> 
> This story has been completely prewritten, and updates will be once a week. 
> 
> Major thanks to Velocity Girl1980 for giving me permission to write this fic.

**CHAPTER ONE**

**_June 1529_ **  

Of all the outcomes to the Blackfriars Trial, _this_ was not one she had imagined!

In the past few months, Mary had heard quite a bit about the Great Matter and the papal court set up to judge her parents’ marriage. No one was immune from royal gossip, not even the heir to the throne who was still residing in ostensible seclusion at Ludlow. Opinions differed wildly on whether King Henry (and consequently, Mademoiselle Boleyn) would win, Queen Katherine would, or Rome would drag their feet once again. Mary had feared the first, hoped for the second, and expected the third.

But according to the stories flying about the country, none of those had happened. Instead, in the middle of her mother’s speech, a man had burst into the courtroom, claiming to be Arthur Tudor, former Prince of Wales, her father’s long-dead brother and her mother’s long-dead husband. There had been a deadly silence, before Cardinal Wolsey ordered the courtroom cleared. What happened in the next few minutes was not precisely clear, though if rumor was to be trusted, her mother had wept in open court and slapped the man clean across the face. What was certain was that he was led away under armed guard to the Tower -- whether as a prisoner or as an honored guest, no one could say -- and what was even _more_ certain, her parents’ marriage was to be officially annulled, with full backing from the Pope, as since Arthur was alive, Mary’s parents’ marriage was unquestionably bigamous.

How on earth could her father take this impostor at his word? He himself had grown up with numerous pretenders to the throne casting a shadow over his childhood -- Lambert Simnel, Perkin Warbeck -- so how could he be so blasé about this one? What sorcery had this supposed Arthur worked to convince not only the King of England, but apparently the Pope and the Emperor as well, since they were not contesting the annulment?

Were Anne and this so-called Arthur in collusion? Had the Boleyns arranged for this? Dredged up some man to pretend to be Prince Arthur and nip the Great Matter in the bud after three years of constant delay?

Lady Salisbury had been no help when Mary came to her, overflowing with questions. Was this man really Prince Arthur? Was Arthur her father now? If he had never come back, would her parents still be married! 

All her governess had said was that her parents would talk to her properly when they arrived in London. The distance between there and Ludlow had always been considerable, but it had never seemed so long as it did now. She gazed out upon the fields and hamlets rushing by, that she had always expected to rule, her heart beating an unsteady tattoo.

Mother and Father’s marriage couldn’t possibly end like this! 

The carriage’s entrance into London was dismal at first, not due to ill sentiment but simply because many people seemed taken aback to see her. They were likely still recovering from the shock of the resurrected Arthur, but once they had noticed her, the cheers were as loud as they had ever been. She was glad of it, just as she was glad to see no sign of the Boleyns as she dismounted in the front courtyard and made her way into the palace.

When her parents finally sat down with her in the parlor, Mary felt her stomach swoop at the looks on their faces. Her father’s face was drawn and furrowed, but her mother’s -- God above, her mother’s countenance was ravaged and broken as it never had been before.

Silence hung for a few moments, before her father began without preamble. “You must have heard so many things on your way here, and I think you are old enough to hear the truth, so I will put it to you. As it transpires, Arthur never died, and therefore the marriage between us is invalid.”

“So he really is Uncle Arthur.” Mary’s mouth was dry. “How could he not have died?”

Her father sighed heavily. “He never really fell ill of the Sweat, as a boy. He placed another body in his place and snuck out in the night.”

“And he fooled everyone?” Mary demanded to know, hardly unable to believe her ears.

“Yes. A real-life Lazarus. No one, save for one servant, knew anything of his survival until a few days ago.”

“Then where has he been all this time? He can’t have just vanished into nothingness for-- for twenty-eight years, and then dropped back onto the face of the earth!” 

“He apparently has travelled all over England and the continent, living as a commoner. Why he did so is a question I am still pondering.” Mother had finally spoken, and though her voice was broken, beneath it there was a steady undercurrent of anger. One that would bubble over and overflow, but at a later point. Mary paid scant attention to this, however, as suddenly another thought seized her with absolute panic.

“Then does this mean you are no longer King, Father?” All this time she had been put out at the thought of becoming a bastard, when her father might very well be about to lose his throne. Dear God…  She had grown up on tales of the Cousins’ War, only one generation ago, out of which the Tudor dynasty had taken root, and she knew what kind of devastation a succession crisis could wreak on the country. 

“No.” Father’s response was immediate. “He was never crowned or anointed King, and therefore has no throne to abdicate. Besides, there is scriptural precedent for it, in Genesis 25:29 -- Esau, who sold his birthright to his brother Jacob.” 

Of course her father would have concocted something from the Bible already to justify his whims. It did strike her as a particularly apt parallel for Arthur, who apparently valued his own birthright no more than he did a bowl of soup. And she _was_ relieved to have her fears of her father being dethroned assuaged. No matter what, he was still her sovereign lord and the only King she had ever known.

That did not mean her initial worries paled. How prescient of her father, she thought sourly. He had claimed it was because of her mother’s first marriage that this one was invalid, and in a way, he had been right all along.

Mary was the result of bigamy. 

Her mother had married her husband’s brother, while that husband still lived. 

She was a bastard, unquestionably.

“He never had any coronation, but you’re perfectly happy to insist that Mother’s first wedding with him was valid,” Mary guessed. “So I am no longer Princess Mary, but Lady Mary?”

Her father glanced away, while her mother stared up at the ceiling. Their inability to meet her eyes was answer enough.

She felt a sob creeping up in her throat, and choked it down. Tears obscured her vision to vague blurs. Mary turned to her mother, beseeching her. “Tell me I am a bastard, Mama.” The childish moniker slipped from her lips, and she was a child again, seeking reassurance, unable to believe the ugly truth until she heard her mother say it, the one whom she revered above all else. “Say that I am illegitimate.” 

Mother bit her lip and turned her face away, sobs wracking her body. Mary felt hot tears carve their own path down her face. It really could not end like this, it could not.

Father looked thoroughly uncomfortable but placed an awkward hand on Mother’s wrist, squeezing it. Queen Katherine had regained control of herself, however, and shook him off. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, her chest still heaving with dying sobs.

“Why on earth can’t Mother and Arthur’s marriage be annulled, since you both had every reason to believe him dead?” Mary turned to each of them, begging for answers. Had no one truly considered the justice of this venture? “And it was never even consummated! Mother would never have lied, no matter what you might think of her, and the only other person who could have testified to that is well and alive. If is is really Arthur, then ask him whether or not it happened!”

“We have already thought of all that, my pearl.” Her father’s voice was gentle, his face pained, and Mary hated him even more for that. Had he yelled at her, she could have shouted right back, matching him in rage, but she had no weapon against resigned kindness. “Your mother and I married in good faith, but Arthur knew very well that he was still alive, and therefore the first marriage still stands.”

“Then you are going to marry Mistress Boleyn,” Mary predicted. She was technically not supposed to know of her father’s mistress’s existence, but if he truly thought she believed that the Great Matter was all about his conscience, then he was a fool -- and her father was no fool. 

To his credit, her father looked hesitant to confirm it. Her mother finally broke in. “He is. The Pope himself agrees that such a move is valid.” Her eyes were grieved, but her voice steady.

Mary felt a dull blow to her stomach. She had thought after the Sack of Rome, matters were in their favor, but if the Holy Father himself said so, then she and her mother had no choice but to obey.

“It’s a huge transformation for you, my pearl. But remember that we are still your parents, and we both still love you.”

Henry got up from his seat and crossed over to kneel in front of Mary, cupping her chin in one hand. “Even when I have a son, you will still be the pearl of my world, and my eldest child.”

His smile was broad and genuine, and his manner affectionate, but Mary was muted. 

Her father was getting married to someone who was not her mother.

Her mother was forced to be married to someone who was not her father-- moreover, someone whom she has been married to her whole life without knowing it, decades before Mary was born, decades before Mary was even thought of.

Her uncle was her stepfather.

Her parents’ “marriage” was an abomination that never should have occurred, and she was a byproduct of that abomination.

And now she was to lose her legitimacy and her title as Princess. 

How could this happen to her, the Princess of Wales, the relative of Spanish monarchs, the pearl of her father’s world?

Her mind spun; if something had gone different, if Arthur had not faked his death, he and her mother would have remained married forever. Would she have been born at all? Would she still be Mary if her father was a different man? Would her father have had children at all? He likely would have gone into the church, while Arthur was King.

“I hate him.” She had not realized she said it out loud until her parents looked at her. “I hate Arthur. He is the cause of all this! I wish he had died for good in the Sweat, or else, never come back to ruin everything!”

She was shocked by her own words, which were technically treason. But neither of her parents reacted, and she realized that they agreed with her. 

That knowledge blunted some of her anger. She still resented her father for going ahead with marrying Anne, but she knew that it was Arthur’s fault that he had to make such a move. And her father did not look too happy about the prospect, which cheered her somewhat.

“I understand.” There was a level of compassion in his voice that Mary was not used to hearing from him, and his eyes were dark with understanding. “You have every right to resent Arthur -- God knows your mother and I, and a lot of other people, do as well -- but always remember that I love you, and that your mother loves you, and Mistress Boleyn will be kind to you as well. Even when she has a son, she will not try to hurt you.”

 _When_ a son was born, not _if_. Her new stepmother, Mistress Boleyn, and her new stepfather, her uncle. No longer Princess Mary, but Lady Mary. 

Of all the fruits she had expected the Blackfriars Trial to yield, this was not one of them, and it was the bitterest one she had ever had to swallow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, Mary meets Arthur for the first time! Credits to Elizabeth/ @fandomsruinedmylifebut from Tumblr for the idea about the Jacob & Esau verse!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your reviews, follows, and faves! I'm currently very busy IRL and pretty tired by the end of each day, so I'm going to upload this (thankfully prewritten) chapter and respond to reviews hopefully by this weekend.

**CHAPTER TWO**

**_June 1529_ **

Mary’s world was swishing, snipping, and transforming from blue and green back to green and white.

When she was nine and sent to Ludlow as Princess of Wales, all her servants had received new livery in blue and green, the new colors of her household, to show that she was now the official heir to the throne. She remembered the seamstresses working furiously day and night, and seeing for herself the design of the gown that all her ladies would wear. How fussy Lady Salisbury had been about ensuring everyone kept their new livery in good condition, and how glad her mother had been to see her daughter was being visibly honored (and above her bastard half-brother Fitzroy, or so went the whispers that had reached her ears even when she was a child).

Now, all her servants had to hastily exchange their livery for the standard green and white Tudor livery, as they were no longer her servants but the King’s.

Now, she was no longer a princess.

Now, she was obligated to leave Ludlow and would be sharing a household with her mother at the More.

Even in times like these, Lady Salisbury was determined not to let her sulk, and with her usual practicality, had set about pointing out the positive aspects of her situation. “You haven’t been obligated to reduce your household by even one servant, despite everything. Not many royal bastards--” at Mary’s mutinous look, Lady Salisbury amended herself -- “not many princesses now regarded as royal bastards can boast a household three hundred strong. And your mother has not been obliged to reduce her household either, even though she is now regarded as the Duchess of Clarence.”

Mary shuddered at hearing her mother’s new title repeated by her dear governess. Her father had granted Arthur the Dukedom of Clarence, both to give him some semblance of royal honor and as a message to anyone who might get ideas about using him as a figurehead in their plots. Consequently, her mother was now the Duchess, since she took her status from Arthur, not Mary’s father.

From Queen of England, to a duchess.

From Princess of Wales, to a lady.

“Even Fitzroy doesn’t have as large a household,” Lady Salisbury pointed out, in a low voice -- they never knew who might be eavesdropping. “Your father is deeply hurt by what his brother did, and thus he feels more tenderly towards the two of you than he might have under other circumstances, and views you as fellow victims. Hence, he has not reduced your households so that his new wife and heirs may have a higher status.”

“I don’t wish to speak of the Lady Anne,” Mary said brusquely. The woman was probably Queen Anne by this point, but she could not yet apply her mother’s title to that woman.

“And you’ll be able to live with your mother again for the first time in four years,” Lady Salisbury tried again. “You missed her so much when you went to Ludlow, don’t you remember?”

Mary pursed her lips at this. On one level, she should be glad to have her mother’s presence once more, but even that in itself was a sign of her demotion, since she was no longer heir to the throne and therefore not entitled to her own residence at Ludlow. And though she never would have dared to admit it, living at close quarters with her mother meant bearing daily witness to her pain.

Oh, Katherine of Aragon rarely showed it openly; she still behaved with all the grace of a Queen of England, making the arrangements for the abrupt move with brisk efficiency. But there was always the shadow of grief whispering after her movements: her lips pressed thin together, her downcast eyes, her occasional sighs. Only the other day, Mary, her mother, and a few of her ladies had been sitting together sewing when her mother had missed a stitch. It was only a dropped stitch, but it had been the pebble that dislodged the dam, and Katherine of Aragon had broken down right there, sobs wracking her body.

Mary had gawked at her for a few moments, as had the ladies-in-waiting. Then she remembered herself and took control of the situation, shooing the other ladies out of the room and once alone, moving to behind where her mother sat. Mary had gently pried the embroidery hoop out of her mother’s hands and wrapped her arms around her. To her surprise, her mother had clasped her hands tightly, her tears dripping onto them. Mary said nothing, merely rocked back and forth with her mother and felt older than she ever had in her life.

Mary blinked; Lady Salisbury was waiting for an answer. “I should be glad to have my lady mother’s comfort in a time like this,” she muttered. “Have you seen after the packing of my book of poems?”

* * *

 

“He is living with _us_?”

She was speaking with Lady Salisbury again; Mary knew better than to bring it up with her mother. Somehow, in all the confusion and chaos surrounding the move, she had not realized until today, the day of, that she would be sharing the More not only with her mother, but with Arthur as well.

The marriage had to be reacknowledged and reaffirmed, but did they actually have to live with each other? After all, until very recently, her mother had been her father’s wife.

“To underscore the validity of the King’s new marriage, it must also be emphasized that your mother and your uncle’s marriage is valid as well, and that it has all the trappings of a normal marriage,” Lady Salisbury explained in an undertone; Mary’s mother was sufficiently distracted, overseeing the trunks being loaded behind the carriage.

“Living apart would give rise to rumors that your mother still considers herself your father’s wife.”

The horseman cracked his whip, and they boarded the carriage in a hurry. They trundled a brief distance before stopping at the Tower of London, where Arthur had been lodged for the past few weeks. Mother dismounted, leaving Mary in the back with her governess, chewing her lip furiously. For some reason, her palms were sweating and she discreetly tried to wipe them on the front of her gown.

Finally, her mother returned, and Mary was able to get her first good look at Arthur Tudor. He had been kept in the Tower for close to a month, but he was wearing royal clothing; he evidently was not a prisoner, though Mary would happily have kept him as one for the rest of his natural life. He was ill-shaved, though, with untamed curls and a deeply tanned face. And he had that _air_ about him that he was a commoner, and a wild look in his eyes.

He was definitely related to her father; he looked more like the portraits she’d seen of her paternal grandfather, while her father took after his Yorkist relatives. But she recognized that jaw, that red hair, the Tudor look. If she were not careful, she could almost take him for her father.

She shuddered.

She slipped out of the carriage and curtseyed, since she was in public, but she made sure that the gesture was clearly meant for her mother only. She got back in, grateful that she would be sitting in the back with Lady Salisbury, and Arthur in the front.

If he was put out by her snub, he gave no sign of it. He boarded the carriage -- sitting down directly in front of her, Mary noted unhappily -- and they were off once more.

Their positions allowed her to gaze up at the back of his head, and Mary wished she was blessed with extraordinary vision so that she could peer directly into his mind. What on earth could she make of this man who spent his whole life gallivanting across Europe like a commoner? What had possessed him? And why had he come back after so many years?

Her mind was nearly fuzzy with confusion. A few weeks ago she was a Princess, now she was an incestuous bastard, thanks to this man.

Did she owe obedience to him, now that he was her mother’s husband? No, no she did not, Mary reassured herself. Her first obedience was to the King, who was also her father, and Arthur had proven that he apparently did not care about being King.

If he expected her obedience, he would not find it -- and Mary sensed her parents would not be cross with her if she didn’t. But she would have to find an answer to the question sooner or later, given they would be living together.

What would she even call him? _Uncle Arthur_ \-- no, she already had an Uncle in Charles Brandon, the Duke of Suffolk, and Arthur did not deserve that kind of familiarity. _Father_ or _Stepfather_ \-- both made her shudder. Perhaps simply _Arthur_ \-- no, that was too familiar as well.

Perhaps she could simply address him as _Your Grace_ , since he was the Duke of Clarence after all, though he was as undecidedly royal or noble as any man could be.

She was still mystified by the story as it had apparently played out. What young man would fake his death and abandon his newly wed wife, his family, his country, and his duty? Only to come back twenty-eight years too late and ruin everything in the process? Why couldn’t he have just stayed in obscurity forever? What had he hoped to achieve? What did he expect her to do now that his existence directly contradicted her own?

All she could hope was to avoid him as much as possible. The More was a big palace, especially if it was going to be accommodating both her and her mother’s unreduced households. Perhaps it would be large enough for them to live out their lives separately.

* * *

The More was certainly an enormous manor, but somehow Mary still could not avoid discovering that her uncle-turned-stepfather had a mistress already. Taking walks in the garden together, laughing and talking until all hours of the night, arm-in-arm as though they had known each other years… Even worse was that the lady in question was Ursula Pole, Lady Salisbury’s daughter and Mary’s own cousin. What she was playing at, cozying up to her longtime Queen’s husband?

It was as though history was repeating itself.

She had never allowed herself to think too much about the fact that her father took mistresses, but Henry Fitzroy’s existence was proof of it. It must have hurt her mother so much, always having to look the other way, no matter which brother was her husband. And her father had taken advantage of the state of affairs to make his mistress his Queen, no matter how Mary tried to spin it and not resent him. He had everything he had ever wanted, while her mother -- and Mary -- were expected to console themselves with second best. By now, Anne had had her coronation, and even up here in Hamptonshire, news flowed of how overjoyed the King and new Queen were.

Her mother could not even bear to be in the same room as her own husband. She maintained a cool, rigid dignity on the occasions she could not avoid him, and strategically scheduled her meals around his. Bereft of all she had expected her life to hold, Mary’s mother was withering away slowly.

And the cause of it all was happily in the arms of his lady-love.

Laughter echoed up from the grounds, through her open window, followed by a dog barking. Mary gritted her teeth and slammed the shutters closed, so hard the embers in the hearth were extinguished.


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**_Autumn 1529_ **

The tome before her was in Latin, or perhaps Greek; Mary’s attention was flagging so much today that she kept forgetting which tongue she was supposed to be translating. She would pen a word or two, then the quill would stop and hang aloft, dripping ink until she blinked herself back into concentration. Two hours she had been sitting here, and all she had to show for it was three scant lines, peppered with inkblots.

Sometimes, when her mind was drifting, it occurred to her that she could simply banish Ursula Pole from the More. She still held that much power, and her faithless cousin was not a member of her household, merely a visitor here. But Ursula was also Lady Salisbury’s only daughter, and Mary would not hurt her governess, much less let Arthur know he could affect her like that.

Mary sighed and flipped back through the book, determinedly not trying to wonder if the Duke was with Ursula right now.

The door creaked open, and her steward announced, “The Duchess of Clarence!”

It took Mary a few seconds to place the title, and then she quickly rose out of her chair and curtseyed. It might not be strictly necessary when they were in private, but she of all people would never deny her mother the deference she was due.

She glanced up, and was glad to see that while Mother’s face was still shadowed, there was an upward tilt to her mouth, and a sparkle in her eyes. Mary resumed her spot at the desk, quickly shoving the sheaf of paper out of sight.

“How are you, my darling daughter?” A warm hand fell upon her shoulder, and the other brushed her hair gently.

“I am working on a new translation,” Mary answered, not saying _I am well_. Her mother seemed to hear the omission, and her slight smile faded a little, before brightening once more.

“I have invited the Exeters over for a hunting party at our new residence. Henry and Gertrude will be there, as well as your young cousin Ned-- he’s almost two years old now, and much bigger than the last time you saw them.”

Mary smiled. It would be good to see some of their closest friends and supporters again, and distract herself from what her life had become. “When will they come?”

“In a few weeks’ time. In the meantime, be sure to work hard at your studies.” Her mother gave her shoulder another squeeze, and then left. Mary sighed, and felt herself sinking back into the miasma of despair.

In due time, her solitude was breached again, this time by Lady Salisbury. Mary groaned silently.

“Have you finished your translation?”

Prevarication would earn Mary nothing. She handed over the sheet with its measly four lines over and said in a low voice, “This is all I have done this afternoon.”

Lady Salisbury looked askance at her. “Are you jesting with me? Or do you have the rest of the translation hidden away somewhere?”

Mary scrunched her eyes tightly, feeling impossibly tired suddenly. “I was unable to concentrate today, and this was all I was able to render.”

“This is most unacceptable!” Lady Salisbury flung down the sheet and began to pace. “You cannot have possibly wasted the whole afternoon only to produce _this_ much work. It’s shameful in any scholar, but for a princess--”

“Except I’m not a princess anymore,” Mary broke in, bitterness seeping into her tone. “I shall never be anything more than Lady Mary, no matter how much I study, and it is all thanks to His Grace the Duke of Clarence!”

Lady Salisbury’s face softened in sudden understanding. She began consoling Mary with her usual lines, but Mary was in no mood to hear the usual reassurances that her parents loved her and would always love her, no matter what title preceded her name. She didn’t want consolation. She wanted her rights and her self-respect back.

“Tell me something else,” Mary broke in. “Why has Ursula taken it into her head to get so close with the Duke? It is as though she is his mistress, for all the time they spend with each other!”

Her governess hesitated. “You must know that Arthur has been quite lonely ever since he returned. No one knows how to treat him, whether like a prince or a commoner, and it wears on him. Ursula is one of the few people who treats him like a friend -- they met at the Queen’s coronation, and they’ve been… close ever since. I am sure it is strictly friendship, and if he feels a touch more than that…” Lady Salisbury’s lips thinned. “Arthur knows that Ursula is our only daughter. He would not treat her inappropriately.”

Arthur’s definition of _inappropriate_ was highly suspect, but Mary left it there. Lady Salisbury was like an aunt to Arthur; she had grown up watching over him, and still remembered the child he must have been. She would not be able to hear ill of him, or of her daughter. Besides, it was enough for Mary to learn that Arthur was lonely; she had not considered it until now, but she took a vicious satisfaction in knowing he was shunned.

“Enough about your uncle. Sit a while more with this book, perhaps half an hour but no longer. Even if it is difficult to focus, set that aside and concentrate on doing as much as you can.”

Mary nodded and dutifully picked up her quill once more when Lady Salisbury had left, but try as she might, she could not summon up any motivation. Studying had once been as natural to her as breathing; now she struggled to get back into the familiar rhythm. It was only now that she was no longer heir to the throne that she realized that in every lesson, there had been the phrase _When you are queen, you will need to know…_ Whenever she sat down to study, the unconscious thought in her mind was _I must learn this for when I am Queen_.

Now that she knew she would never be queen, studying seemed pointless. All her education, all that hard work… and for what? Just like her mother -- born an Infanta, the daughter of powerful Spanish kings, brought up to be Queen of England, and now reduced to being a Duchess out of pity and hastily married (remarried?) off to some commoner.

It shamed her to realize how much all she had done was for approval. Approval from her mother, her governess, her tutors, and her people, but most of all from her father. If she could win his approval, perhaps she could make him forget that he ever regretted she was not a son, that she was not the King he had always wanted to leave behind. Now he had no reason to ever bestow his approval upon her.

Such desire for validation was unhealthy, not to mention unchristian. Lines from a prayer by St. Aquinas that she had translated herself echoed in her mind: _Good Lord, grant that my soul be desiring to please nobody, nor fearing to displease any besides thee…_

She should not care about pleasing anyone save God, but her heart and ego were frail and yearned for her father’s esteem and praise. And as long as she lived without it, she knew her studies would suffer, and she would continue to waste away like this.

Mary sighed and set the tome aside. She was about to fetch her embroidery hoop -- if she could not study, she could redeem herself with mindless women’s work that her hands automatically performed -- when she heard the clatter of hooves and “ _The King!”_

The hoop slipped from her fingers; she was out of the room before it had hit the ground. She ran downstairs, taking two steps at a time, and entered the front courtyard just as her father was dismounting. She paused only to curtsey before running into his arms, and to her delight (and relief), his smile was wide and unpracticed, his embrace strong. “Papa,” she whispered, and his arms tightened around her.

“Did you miss me?” he asked. “Oh, how I have missed you.”

“I am overjoyed -- no, I am _buoyant_ now that you are here.” Her father’s visit was the answer to every desperate prayer, the reassurance to every stinging doubt she had harbored over the last few months. Now that he was here, her despair evaporated and she was giddy.

“I have some gifts for you.” He gestured, and at once his grooms moved to place the parcels in her arms. They turned out to contain a length of fabric for a new gown (from the Queen, as it turned out), and from her father, several books for her studies (her stomach twinged with guilt as she took them).

She left the gifts in the care of the servants, to be borne upstairs, before she and her father set on a walk around the grounds. Despite the chill that had him draping one of his sable furs around her, she was glad to be with her _real_ father again after weeks of having to dodge her uncle-turned-stepfather. They walked for a while, talking of light, easy topics, and reacquaintancing themselves with each other before Mary plucked up the courage to ask her question.

“Now that His Grace the Duke of Clarence is Mother’s husband, does that mean I owe him my obedience and respect as a daughter?”

She didn’t think so, but if her father truly wished to emphasize that her mother’s first marriage was valid…

“No,” her father said. “You are _my_ daughter still, and no other man may usurp that title.”

Mary relaxed at that, before her father asked, “Has Arthur tried to order you, or scold you?”

“No, he hasn’t. He hasn’t talked to me at all, not since we first came to the More.”

Her father’s pace slowed to a stop, and Mary did likewise. She turned to see that he was looking off in the distance at the manor, and his forehead was creased. He was thinking, she realized.

“I don’t mind that he doesn’t talk to me,” she hastily added, in case her father got any ideas about trying to foster some kind of relationship. “I prefer it that way.”

“I cannot blame you.” There was something new in Father’s voice-- something raw, painful, personal.

He turned away from the More and began walking again, Mary following. “It has been rather difficult for me as well,” he confessed. “Arthur should have been King, not me. There are times when I become almost dizzy considering what might have been.”

It was strange to see this side of her father, open and vulnerable. She had thought he would be pleased with this turn of events that had allowed him to marry Anne without upsetting the Pope or Emperor. But he didn’t seem pleased right now, and when Mary glanced at him again, the look in his eyes was that of a lost and bereft child, the boy Mary suddenly realized he must have been. A boy who was once simply the Duke of York, who lost his older brother and his mother less than a year apart and tried to fill those shoes the best he could. Her father had always seemed utterly confident in his role as King, but it seemed Arthur’s resurrection had shaken his convictions.

_Order my life that I may do that which thou requirest of me, and give me grace that I may know it and have will and power to do it_ … but how can you know what God requires of you when your life is a lie?

They had all been victims of Arthur’s deception: her father as a brother and King, her mother as a wife, and Mary herself as a… niece?

“Never mind Arthur.” Papa’s voice broke into her musings. “I have some news from London for you, and I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

His eyes were hopeful once again, and Mary’s heart thumped fast for a second. Impossible fantasies danced across her mind: the Pope had changed his mind, the Emperor was going to invade England, Father was going to leave Anne and return to her mother, Arthur be damned--

“The Queen is with child.”

Mary blinked. In the next instant, she took in her father’s proud expression; in the next, her warm feelings towards him evaporated.

Did he come here to the More just to say this, after all this time? Was his first priority always going to be Anne, and Mary simply an afterthought? Had it taken the coming arrival of this child to remind him of his eldest child? Was that all the significance she held in his life now? An ornament to his new family?

_Not now_ , Mary reminded herself. Her father was smiling, waiting for an answer. “I know you must be very happy,” she forced herself to say, keeping her tone and countenance steady. “ I will pray for the Queen’s health.”

“I’m glad to know it,” he said, and there was warmth and pride in his voice. “I have wanted to give you a younger sibling for so long. Fate has not been kind to us” -- Mary thought _fate_ was a strange name to assign to Arthur -- “but now we will finally have what we have desired for so long.”

“Yes, your Majesty.”

Mary looked out across the grounds, at the leaves bleeding from green to bronze, at the withering grass, at the sky strewn with pewter-gray clouds. _My most loving Lord and God, give me a waking heart, that no curious thought may withdraw me from thee. Let it be so strong, that no unworthy affection may draw me backward._ “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary translated a prayer by St. Thomas Aquinas from Latin to English when she was eleven, about two years before this chapter. Her work can be found [here.](https://aclerkofoxford.blogspot.com/2014/03/a-prayer-of-thomas-aquinas-in-middle.html)


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**_Winter 1529-30_ **

Mary knelt at her  _ pre-dieu, _ prayer on her lips and contradictions in her heart.

She  _ had _ promised her father that she would pray for the Queen, and the coming child. But…

She had always prayed for a brother as a child, at least until she became Princess of Wales and put away the idea for good, but now that it was once more a reality… the old dream was back, gaining shape and color. She could remember the desperate longing that had seized her at times, the desire for a companion who shared her blood and her burdens.

But this child would not be her mother’s. This child would be called “Prince” and “Your Grace”, would be the legitimate heir to everything that Mary had lost. How could she pray, when every time she thought about the child, she got that swooping sense of dread?

But she also remembered the conviction, and pride, in her father’s voice: “You are  _ my _ daughter still.”

The scriptures said that you could glean satisfaction by doing good, even if, or especially when, the soul was unwilling. Mary bowed her head and whispered a prayer to God, before rising and crossing herself.

At least Ursula Pole had been sent away from the More.

She was glad to see her uncle’s mistress gone, though Mary was unsure what exactly had precipitated her leaving. What Mary did know was that her departure coincided with an unusual development between her mother and the Duke. She didn’t know when it had started, but it seemed as though they were getting closer. Early this morning, when Mary had come into the dining hall, they were eating breakfast together, talking and laughing. When he saw Mary, Arthur had smiled and excused himself so that Mary and her mother could dine alone together. Mary had not said anything, not wanting to ruin her mother’s good mood, but she was suspicious.

It didn’t stop in the morning. When Mary had attempted to study this afternoon and glanced out the window, she had seen her mother and the Duke taking the dogs on a run around the grounds. 

She was confused, and slightly put out, but she supposed she could not have expected her mother to live in icy silence forever with her new former husband.

But she was still shocked that her mother seemed to have forgiven such a deception.

* * *

 

Mud and cobblestones spit up as the Courtenays’ carriage trundled into the courtyard of the More. Mary was shivering, but she smiled as she saw first Hal, then his wife Gertrude, and finally their young son Edward dismount. The Exeters were her cousins, and also some of her and her mother’s closest friends. 

When the adults had greeted one another and started moving towards the foyer, Mary stepped forward to curtsey. “My Lord and Lady of Exeter,” she murmured, kissing them each on the cheek, before nodding to her mother, “and my lady mother.”

As usual, she made no gesture towards Arthur. Lady Salisbury looked askance at her, but Mary affected not to notice. She had never paid the Duke of Clarence any respect when they were in private, and he had never made any remark over it, so why would anyone expect her to pretend she respected him in public? 

The Exeters clearly shared her sentiments as they didn’t say anything, or perhaps they were simply too tactful to do so. Mary found herself wondering what exactly they would think of Arthur. The spiteful part of her wanted them to treat the Duke like dirt on the bottom of their boots. The Courtenays were polite, however, with her uncle, if a touch impersonal. Perhaps that was to be expected, as he was her mother’s husband, and the Courtenays were deeply loyal to their mother, he was of royal blood, he was their cousin, and he was hosting them.

Lady Salisbury shook her head at Mary before moving to greet her daughter -- somehow, Ursula had managed to get herself a position as a governess to young Ned Courtenay, and she was thus back at the More. Mary hoped she would have the decency to make herself scarce during her stay here.

They settled down to eat, Mary taking care to sit between their guests and her mother. “My Lady of Exeter, are you not at court?” Arthur asked. “I hear the Queen is in her confinement now?”

Mary frowned at remembering that the child would be born in a matter of weeks. She leaned in closer to listen, however. Gossip was always valuable.

“Heavens no,” replied Gertrude as she gestured to a servant to refill her glass. “I managed to get myself out of it. Poor Jane Seymour is stuck there, though.”

“What surprises me,” Hal added, “is that the Queen’s sister is always at her side. Wasn’t she having relations with His Majesty at some point?”

Mother blanched at this, while Mary sensed herself doing likewise. She was too young to remember her father’s affair with Mary Carey, but she did recall how he had sent two bulls to the Pope some years ago, one asking for permission to marry the sister of his former mistress, and the other asking for permission to commit bigamy if an annulment could not be granted. How flexible her father’s conscience could be: he had unquestionably had relations with his current wife’s sister, while her mother had never done anything with Arthur. Yet his marriage to Anne was valid and her mother had been disregarded.

“Oh yes,” Mother replied. “It surprises me, too. My guess is, Anne feels safer with ex-mistresses. She knows Henry's ways. Once he is done with a girl, she is gone for good.”

Perhaps if Father ever tired of Anne, that meant she would be banished for good as well. 

“Is she really that insecure?" asked Arthur, glancing at Gertrude. "She seemed nice those few times I was presented to her.”

Was Arthur really  _ that  _ naive? He had spent the first fifteen years of his life as heir to the throne, almost the same age as Mary was now, and she knew better than to like Anne. It did give her some satisfaction to think that the Boleyn was struggling to feel safe. 

“She's nice to your face!” Hal snorted before Gertrude could answer.

“I don't know about insecure,” said Gertrude. “But she is worried about her support base. She tried to get her brother, George, in as Lord Chancellor, but Henry gave the position to Thomas More.”

“Thomas More?” asked Mother, her eyes wide with surprise. “What is the King doing?”

Silence reigned for a few moments, as Gertrude decided how best to put it. “The King is pushing through these church reforms, as you know,” she said. “But, there has been resistance from some unexpected quarters. The King dissolved upwards of fifty monastic houses, and when he sent his men to shut them down, the local populace started to get restive. Then there was resistance in the Commons. My guess is, Henry is taking well known conservatives, like More, and testing their loyalty by giving them some of Wolsey's old jobs.”

Mary pursed her lips at this; Thomas More was a good man and didn’t deserve to be tested like this. She was intrigued, however, by the news that the people were angry. She and her mother had always held the goodwill of the people, and if they were enraged at the new policies… 

“And if they fail the loyalty test?" Arthur asked for everyone. 

"Who knows?" said Hal. “But there is more. The King has talked about going the same way as certain German states, and a split with Rome altogether--”

Mary started at this, and her mother choked on her mouthful of roast lamb. Once Mother had caught her breath, she gasped, “He wouldn't!”

Hal Courtenay shook his head, with all the air of a Privy Councillor who knew what was happening in the Kingdom almost before the King did. "Remember the priest who performed the Queen's marriage and coronation?" asked Hal. "His name is Thomas Cranmer.” 

Mary scowled to hear Cranmer’s name. She had heard the rumors that he might persuade the King to use heretical means to get his annulment, and had Arthur not reappeared, England may well have gone down that route.

“He is on embassy in Nuremberg,” Hal continued. “He sends reports to the King every day, bleating about the freedom of the people, the unity and happiness now that they are free from the bonds of Rome.”

“And the King believes him?” asked Mother. 

Whether or not Father believed him was secondary to Mary’s immediate desire to know what the people might think. “If the people are angry about a few dissolved abbeys," she asked, fiddling with her glass, “how angry would they be about a split from the Papal See?”

The adults exchanged dark glances. “Let us not go there,” Mother said finally.

Dinner continued in a lighter vein, with no more talk of politics. Gertrude helped her son cut his tough beef and chided him when he whined for sweets. Mary smiled, remembering being young and confined at the dinner table to fish and meat, but even so, she could not ignore the thought that Arthur was responsible for possibly introducing heresy to England. Mary had never really considered her stepmother; her stepfather, close at hand, was far easier to hate. But with the knowledge of the recent reforms, an unflattering image was quickly forming in her head.

She didn’t know who she hated more, Anne or Arthur, for bringing her father from  _ Fidei Defensor _ to this. If her mother had been Queen, she could have stopped this. As it was, Anne may well give birth to a son soon, which would mean she would have the King’s ear forever.

Mary shook off her musings, remembering her resolve not to resent her father. The adults were discussing hunting in the morning, and she agreed. As everyone rose from the table to go to bed, Lady Salisbury emerged from the antechamber where she had been dining privately with Ursula. Mary grimaced to see Arthur slipping into the chamber, but she was eager at the prospect of a hunt on the morrow.

* * *

 

Ned was barely three, but his mother saw no reason why he should not accompany them on their hunt. He was swaddled up and carried by a retainer -- not his governess, Ursula Pole, thankfully -- at a leisurely pace behind the adults, who cantered faster. Mary steered her horse to the back of the group, so that she was closest to Ned. She called to him to get his attention, and when he was looking, pretended to fall from her horse with an exaggerated swoop. He yelled in fright, then laughed, clapping his hands.

Mary smiled. Perhaps being an older sibling would not be so bad, she thought with a curious yearning. But then again, Ned was low on the royal family tree.

A call from one of their grooms; they were closing in on a deer. Their horses slowed so as to not crunch in the snow, and Mary’s mother took aim. 

The Duke called out to her mother, something about a messenger, which sent Mother’s arrow off course into a tree and the deer bolting. Mary frowned -- he always ruined  _ everything _ \-- and was vindicated when Mother snapped, “You fool, I could have killed somebody!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But we do have a visitor.”

Mary looked in the direction of the More, to see a rider with the royal standard fluttering in the strong winds. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me today,” she heard her mother say, and turned back in time to see her mother leaning out of her saddle to kiss Arthur on the cheek, just as she used to do with Father. Mary pretended to retch, both to make Ned laugh and out of genuine disgust. Arthur sent her a look, but she didn’t care.

Mother and the Duke rode on ahead to meet the messenger, leaving Mary to ride alongside Gertrude. Although she was a relative of Fitzroy’s mother, the Marchioness of Exeter was still one of Mary’s favorite cousins and had always despised Anne for what she was. Gertrude was a wonderfully blunt conversationalist, and she always spoke to Mary as though she were an adult.

“Ned’s already become quite fond of you, Princess Mary. When we leave back for Exeter, he’ll be quite put out.”

“Lady Mary,” Mary gently corrected her. It pained her, but she knew better than to use the forbidden title in public.

Gertrude merely smiled and leaned in closer. “You must know that you are still legitimate in the eyes of many. They are not happy about the abbeys being dissolved, and they remember you-- and your mother--”

Mary stared wide-eyed at Gertrude, who smiled and trotted off.

Mary dismounted in the stable, mind still agog with possibilities, when she realized her mother and the Duke were also there, standing a short distance apart with their stances turned away from each other. She immediately recognized the signs of an argument; she had seen her mother and father mirror the same positions many a time.

She felt guilty suddenly. Had Arthur gotten mad at her mother over the pretend-vomiting? It  _ was _ quite immature, now that she thought about it, especially in front of their guests.

Mother ushered her inside. Her strained expression did not waver, even when Mary had washed up and returned to the parlor, and she felt her stomach drop. She was going to be punished -- the Duke wanted her sent away from the More -- she had been rejected by not one but now two fathers -- 

“The Queen has given birth to a princess.”

Mary blinked. She had completely forgotten that Anne was due any day now, and it took a while for the news to prick her fear. 

At least the baby was not a boy, but her throat still tightened. “The princess is healthy?”

Mother nodded. “She will be christened Elizabeth in a few days’ time.”

* * *

 

Mother sat with her for most of the night, stroking her hair and forehead. If her hand came away wet, she did not say anything. 

It was bad enough to be a Lady, but now there was a Princess as well, to accentuate her title of Lady. Thanks to Arthur, it had happened.

In a way, it was worse that it was a princess. A boy would have come before Mary in any case, but this girl was set above her by virtue of being legitimate. She knew better than to ask whether this meant Father would make her his heir again. He would already be planning to try again for a boy. Anne was young, with many years still left for her fecundity. 

Mother gathered her up in her arms, and Mary remembered that no matter what, she had one stalwart ally.

* * *

 

Morning dawned cold but clear and sunny. Mary gazed out the window, feeling chilled but clear-headed. The clouds of yesterday had been dispelled, and with them, the clouds of her doubts. 

She finally had a younger sibling--  _ a little sister _ . A strange excitement flared in her heart at the thought.

After breakfast, she sought out her mother and asked when she might be able to visit the new Princess Elizabeth. Mother’s face fell, and Mary wondered if she should not have mentioned this new child; even if it was a girl, it was still a living child that her mother would never have.

“It would be better if you don’t go to court right away. We would not want to remind people that there is an older daughter of the King.”

Mother’s voice was impossibly gentle, with an undertone of worry, as though she feared Mary might hate the baby for this. Mary sighed; how could she resent an infant for anything? Besides, the past year had taught her much about the zigzaggings that politics could necessitate. She swallowed and nodded.

“Now that the baby is here,” Mother said, “it’s time that we talk about a few things.”

They sat down in the solar, shooing away the servants present. “Elizabeth may be a girl, but she is still a healthy child born in their first year of marriage.”

“I know  _ that _ ,” Mary said.

“It means Queen Anne--” Mary marveled at how Mother could say that title with only the slightest hint of bitterness “-- will be very much in your father’s favor.”

“You once held Father’s favor.”

Mother half-smiled at that. “And we still do-- in a way. But, Mary, you must listen carefully. You must never do  _ anything _ to anger the Queen, or her relatives. Or this princess, or any more half-siblings that follow. Your father is still young and healthy, and hopefully has many years ahead of him, but…”

She lowered her voice. “Should it be otherwise, there is a chance that Anne -- or her relations -- could be Regent for her child.”

Mary’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of her father’s possible untimely demise, at how closely her mother’s words skirted around treason. “There once was a time when Father would have named you Regent. I wonder if that woman could even take up arms against the Scots.”

“That was in the past, Mary, and this is now.” Mother shook her head, desperation now in her eyes, and Mary felt guilty for being so whimsically grouchy. “Besides, it was her uncle the Duke of Norfolk who helped lead the troops. There are worse women than Anne to become Queen, and you would do well to hope that she remains so.”

Mary gawked at her.

“She hasn't tried to shun you from court, hasn’t touched you in any way,” her mother said by way of explanation. “As far as she’s concerned, we don’t exist, and as a result, the King has been nothing but good to us. Which is perhaps the best we could have hoped for from a replacement Queen. It could have been another woman, who would feel more insecure and try to act against us. Anne at least is somewhat safe.”

“She is a secret Lutheran,” Mary protested. “You heard at dinner what she is trying to do, with the loyalty tests. Where in that do you see security?”

Mother pressed her lips flat. “Those are merely rumors. And we don’t necessarily know that she herself is one -- it could be any of many people around your father responsible for the reforms. But you must remember this, especially with the arrival of this new child. I no longer hold any power. I cannot shield you from your father’s wrath, should it ever fall upon you.” Mother’s eyes were pained at this admission, but she bore on. “All the more reason to keep her on your good side. To ensure she never has any reason to resort to… desperate measures.”

“Wouldn’t the Emperor defend us, if we needed him to?” Her heart fluttered at the thought of her former betrothed, the ghost of a girlish fantasy she recalled fondly, even if she no longer cherished it.

Mother shook her head. “I would prefer not to become embroiled in a family feud between England and Spain. He would defend us, out of duty and love, but it would be a bitter quarrel that hinders more than helps.”

Like the dowry row that Mother had suffered -- something Arthur had precipitated. Then Mary remembered with a start, “Is the Duke angry with over what happened yesterday with Ned?”

She didn’t care if he was angry at  _ her _ , but she didn’t want to cause problems between him and her mother.

Mother pressed her lips together. “We have resolved it.”

So there  _ had _ been an argument. Her insides twisted with shame, and she opened her mouth to: what? To apologize? To protest?

Mother waved it away. “You’ve been overwhelmed enough for one day. It was not quite seemly,” and here she raised an eyebrow, “but it was in jest, and your uncle is not angry.”

Mary relaxed. Not that she  _ cared _ what her fickle uncle thought of her, but still. It was good to know that someone was not vexed with her.

“I have one last bit of news that you’ll like,” Mother said, with a faint smile. “Arthur has left for court to attend Elizabeth’s christening for three weeks.”

Mary smiled. Finally, she would have the More to herself, without the ghosts of the past as she acclimated herself to this new present.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus an earlier incarnation of Elizabeth is born!
> 
> The dialogue during the dinner party scene comes directly from Velocity Girl 1980’s original story, so all credit goes that way!


End file.
